by Autumn Skies

Summary: Jim and Simon face the prospect of celebrating the holidays without their former police observer.

Notes: A short prequel to Falling Rain in the Sojourner series. Takes place after TSbyBS. Rated PG.

Frowning as he flipped over another page of his desk calendar, Simon Banks wondered at how quickly the year had managed to slip by. The holidays were just around the corner again. Normally, a colorful assortment of fall decorations would have been scattered throughout Major Crime by now. But there was nary a miniature pumpkin or cutout of a Pilgrim to be seen on the desktops. People apparently had other things on their minds.

He looked out his window at the granite gray skies that seemed to match the mood of his department these days. The subdued air bothered him more than he let on; he had yet to come up with a way to lift their spirits. Maybe something would strike him once he was home. Rising from his chair, he reached for the overcoat hanging on the rack behind him. Gathering up his keys and briefcase he made his way toward a desk in the corner of the busy bullpen, pausing as the detective seated there spoke emphatically into his phone.

"Yes, it's very important. If you happen to remember anything, anything at all about where he might have gone, please call me. Right, I can be reached at that number, day or night. Got that? Okay, thanks." Jim Ellison hung up then raised his head. "Sir?"

Simon knew of only one person who warranted that level of concern. "I was just on my way out. Find anything new?"

Jim leaned forward in his chair. "No, not yet." The earlier urgency in his voice had dropped away, but the frustration was there, simmering in his eyes.

The clock on the wall read ten minutes after six. "In that case, you ready to call it a day?"

As expected, Jim shook his head. "I still have a few more calls to make."

Simon set his briefcase down and stepped closer to Jim's chair. Glancing around the bullpen, he lowered his voice. "Why don't you give it a rest? Go home and get some sleep for a change."

"I will. Just not right now."

Seeing the tension coiled inside the detective, Simon decided on another tack. "How about a drink then? We could stop by El Adobe."

He watched Jim roll a pencil between the palms of his hands before tossing it onto the desk. He nodded wearily. "I'll meet you there."

"Good, I'll be waiting." Simon snatched up his briefcase and headed for the elevators.

So much for holiday cheer. He might not be able to do much for the entire department, but hopefully a drink and a hot meal would help at least one of his detectives look a little less grim.

*~*~*

Gazing down at the small list of numbers scrawled on his pad, Jim picked up the phone again and dialed. Getting only a busy signal, he punched in another number.

"You've reached the Asalha Spiritual Center. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and we'll get back to you as soon as possible."

Letting out an exasperated sigh, he spoke quickly. "This message is for Naomi Sandburg. This is Jim Ellison again. I'd appreciate it if she could return my call. I can be reached at home. She has my number. Thank you." He hung up, abruptly turned and grabbed the black leather jacket hanging from the back of his chair.

As he stood, he noticed Megan and Rafe watching him surreptitiously as they pretended to confer over a report.

He hated being scrutinized, no matter how well-intentioned. He'd gotten the same thing from Henri, Joel and even Rhonda. Why couldn't they just leave their noses out of it?

It's because they care, a familiar voice whispered to him.

Dragging his eyes away from the empty chair next to his, he left the bullpen.

*~*~*

From the intersection where he waited to make a left turn, Jim could see that the El Adobe's parking lot was already full. Grumbling, he pulled around the line of cars waiting to get in and found an empty spot half a block away. Stepping out of his truck into the chilly evening air, he pulled up the collar of his jacket as he walked toward the low, white building.

Inside the restaurant, he passed by a tall, bubbling fountain, its shallow blue basin littered with pennies, nickels, and dimes. It was a popular place with the afterwork crowd. He shouldered his way through the patrons milling around the bar area and quickly located Simon, already ensconced at one of the booths lining the back wall.

As Jim approached the table, Simon looked up and nodded. A tall pitcher of beer sat in front of him. Jim unzipped his jacket and sat across from his captain, feeling the air whoosh out of the vinyl cushion underneath. If only the tightness in his chest could be released as easily.

"You look like you could use a drink."

Well, that was certainly true. Wordlessly, Jim poured himself a beer. He took a long swallow and set his glass mug down feeling the cold liquid settle in his stomach. "Thanks, I needed that."

He reached for the basket of tortilla chips.

"Careful," Simon warned. "The salsa's a bit on the spicy side."

"Don't worry, I'm fine." He crunched methodically as Simon took his turn and scooped some salsa onto his chip.

"Don't know about you, but I'm starving. How about splitting an order of chicken quesadillas?"

"Yeah, that sounds good."

"How about some soup, too? I like their albondigas."

"Sure, I'll have whatever you're ordering." Jim picked up another chip.

Even though his eyes were focused on the small bowl of salsa, he could feel Simon's gaze on him. As supportive as he'd been, the captain was no doubt concerned about all the hours he'd been putting in toward locating his awol partner and friend. Jim had to admit he was driven, but not for the reasons Simon and the others probably assumed. Making amends for the way he'd reacted to Blair's dissertation and its release was only part of it. The inner urgency he felt stemmed more from the broken connection between sentinel and shaman. It needed to be restored, put back in balance, and that was something he couldn't readily explain in a way that would make sense to a man like Simon.

Incacha though, would've understood.

To Jim's relief, Simon didn't press him. Instead, he turned his attention to flagging down a passing waitress.

She smiled easily at them and pulled a small notepad from the pocket of her vest. "What can I get for you this evening?"

As Simon pointed to his menu, Jim leaned back and tried to relax. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten an unbroken night of sleep.

He'd wake up around two or three in the morning, with the prickly feeling that something was amiss. But as soon as he opened his eyes and listened, he realized exactly what was wrong. He heard nothing in the loft beyond the soft hum of a few appliances and the creaks and moans of the building. And in the space that was normally occupied by Blair, there was only silence.

Without his friend's warm, steadying presence, Jim felt inwardly adrift and unsettled. Jittery even. He wondered if Blair felt the same way.

"Jim?"

He blinked and looked across the table at his captain. "Sorry. What did you say?"

"I ordered us some enchiladas, too." Simon sipped his beer then looked thoughtfully at him. "So, what do you think? Are you any closer to figuring out where Sandburg might have gone?"

"A little." He'd managed to track Blair to a small town, several states away and gotten a precious phone number from Nick Briosi, the bookseller. But, when he tried calling, he found to his immense frustration that he'd missed Blair by a mere day. His partner had moved on again, leaving no contact information. Jim had been forced to return to Cascade, empty-handed. He heard Simon shift in his seat.

"Maybe you're trying too hard."

Too hard? Jim felt the opposite--that he wasn't doing enough. "What do you mean?"

"I think you need to let go for a bit," Simon continued. "I know it hurts like hell. But it doesn't change the fact that if Sandburg doesn't want to be found, we're just not going to find him. At least not right away."

Jim forced himself not to grip his mug too tightly. "I'll find him."

"Listen, you're not in this alone. We're all worried about him and that includes Joel, Megan, Rafe, Henri, Rhonda and Serena. Not to mention all the ladies in records, personnel, and the forensics lab."

Jim smiled wanly at that.

"Give him a little more time. Sandburg may just return on his own."

"I'd like to believe that," Jim replied softly. "But I can't help thinking I really screwed up."

Simon fiddled with his napkin then set it aside. "I probably shouldn't have pushed him so hard, to try and mold him into something he's not. I just thought after all this time he might want to be one of us."

"I appreciate what you're saying." Jim sighed heavily, recalling the televised press conference. "God, it all just snowballed so fast..."

"Hey, that publisher friend of Naomi's had a lot to do with it, too," Simon added. "What was that woman thinking, in the first place?"

"I guess she thought she was looking out for her son."

Simon let out a disbelieving snort. "Have you gotten ahold of her yet?"

"No, I've left messages though."

They sat in silence, eating more chips and listening to the piped-in music. Funny, Jim thought, he'd never really noticed until lately how effortlessly conversations seemed to flow whenever Blair was around.

Finally, after they'd gone through two bowls of chips, the waitress reappeared with a tray of food. She set the bowls and plates down, then hurried off to another table.

"This is good, you should give it a try," Simon urged, taking a bite out of his quesadilla slice.

Jim cut a piece and put it on his plate. He took a bite, more to appease Simon than anything else and chewed absently on the hot, gooey cheese.

"Do you have any plans for Thanksgiving, after your shift's over?"

Grateful for the change of subject, Jim shrugged. "Not really."

"Not doing anything with your brother or your father?"

"No, not this year. Steven called and said he's going be in New York. My dad's spending it with some old business friends of his."

Simon looked over his glasses. "You're always welcome to eat with us, you know. Trust me, we'll have more than enough food."

Jim hesitated then took another bite without responding.

"Megan will be there, along with Rafe. In fact, she's bringing a salad, and Rafe's going to provide dessert."

"What about Joel and his wife?"

"They're having relatives over, not to mention in-laws at their place this year. But Henri and his girlfriend are coming. He says he's bringing yams. I believe he's trying out his grandmother's recipe on us."

"That doesn't leave much for you to do, does it?"

"What good is it being captain, if you can't delegate," Simon pronounced solemnly.

Jim's lips quirked. "You're right about that."

"So what do you say?"

"I get the feeling you're going to nag me until I say yes."

"That was the plan. Besides, I don't think Sandburg would want you to spend Thanksgiving alone."

Perhaps Simon was right. A little company wouldn't hurt. "All right, you've convinced me. What should I bring?"

"Some wine and beer would be nice."

"You've got it."

The conversation turned to easier subjects, including Daryl's progress at school, Simon's parents and the Jags. After the meal, Jim insisted on picking up the tab, then headed home to the loft.

Both the meal and the beer had a decided mellowing effect on his body and his senses. Once inside, he carelessly tossed his jacket on the nearest surface before making his way into the living room and plopping down on the sofa.

Through the window he watched tiny stars gleam in the dark night sky. Incacha had been right. The connection between sentinel and shaman was one that couldn't be taken lightly or thrown aside. Blair's sudden departure had left a gaping hole in Jim's life. One that left him longing for the familiar sight and sound of his partner as he tapped away on his laptop late at night. He missed the smell of candle wax and musty tomes along with the cheery voice that cracked jokes and the low, serious one that talked him out of zones. And the quick-thinking mind that always found a way to make his life, his work and his senses bearable.

It should never have come to this, Chief. If you were here, I'd tell you that.

It was getting late, and Jim had no desire to stay up and watch the news. After washing his face and brushing his teeth, he walked upstairs to his bedroom. Opening his bureau, he pulled out a clean tee shirt and laid it out on his comforter. He sat on the corner of his bed and slipped off his shoes and socks, yawning widely as he finished undressing. He folded his pants and draped his dark green sweater, the one Blair had given to him on his birthday, carefully over the back of a chair before crawling underneath the covers.

On his back, Jim slid his hands under his head and stared up at the skylight above him.

Wherever you are, Blair, please be safe. I'm not giving up. Not by a long shot.

Downstairs, the small light on the answering machine blinked.

~ The End ~

Comments welcomed. AutumnSkies1@aol.com

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